


Absqualulate (Also ft. Someone Who Doesn’t)

by ThereIsAn_Ace_UpTheseSleeves



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, Arguments, Crying, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hot Chocolate, Hurt/Comfort, Jeremy’s mom leaves, M/M, You can read them as platonic or romantic, it makes everything better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 18:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15691008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereIsAn_Ace_UpTheseSleeves/pseuds/ThereIsAn_Ace_UpTheseSleeves
Summary: ab·squat·u·lateabˈskwäCHəˌlātverb : humorousLeave abruptly..The night that Jeremy’s mom leaves, he sneaks downstairs as quietly as he can, praying that he can remain as invisible as possible in the shadows of the stairwell.(Also known as Sleeves naming their fics after obsolete Pinterest words to seem interesting and pouring out their feelings at the same time. It’s a mess.)





	Absqualulate (Also ft. Someone Who Doesn’t)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JarorraKunSenpaiSan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JarorraKunSenpaiSan/gifts).
  * Inspired by [He(e)re](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13816143) by [JarorraKunSenpaiSan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JarorraKunSenpaiSan/pseuds/JarorraKunSenpaiSan). 



The night that Jeremy’s mom leaves, he sneaks downstairs as quietly as he can, praying that he can remain as invisible as possible in the shadows of the stairwell.

Mom and Dad are fighting because that’s just what they do.

Jeremy listens with wide, sleepy eyes, a soft blanket wrapped around his shoulders and trailing behind him.

“Really, Paul? _I’m_ the one who neglects him? You’re always out at work in your fancy little office, probably flirting with other woman instead of being at home with your wife and kid.” Mom sounds angry. But she always sounds angry—even when she (forcefully) kisses Jeremy’s forehead and tells him she loves him in the mornings when he leaves for school—so it doesn’t fase him much.

“I’m not—Eden, I love you and Jeremy! _That’s_ why I’m always at work! I take extra shifts so I can support my family. You, on the other hand, aren’t around on your own accord, and for no reason at all.” Dad also sounds angry. Almost as angry as Mom. It startles Jeremy out of his barely conscious state, making his chest clench.

   Mom and Dad have been fighting for two years, and Dad’s never yelled once. His tone is always pleading. Now it’s angry.

“ _No reason?_ I have things to do too! And when I _am_ home, Jeremiah is always locked up in his room like he’s, like he’s _depressed_ or something—“

“ _Our son is not depressed._ ” Dad grits out. Something cold settles in Jeremy’s gut. “If he _was_ , we’d help him. We wouldn’t continue to let him suffer alone. He’s always in his room because _we’re_ never around! You dropped your job so you could raise him, honey! That was the plan!” Dad’s voice is slowly bleeding back into the begging voice again.  Jeremy feels like it’s Dad’s way of admitting defeat. Again.

“Well, things change.” Mom says. There’s a pause that makes Jeremy’s curiosity heighten. It eggs him on until he’s taking a few more steps forward, peeking around the corner and taking in the sight.

Dad is standing in front of the fridge, a beer bottle on the counter right beside him. He looks exasperated and just a little frightened.

Mom is facing away from Jeremy, but she’s sitting in a chair at their kitchen table. Her back is as straight as an arrow, reminding Jeremy of how she looks when he comes home with a bad grade.

“Anyways,” Mom sighs out, shifting in her seat a little so she’s facing the wall and not Dad. _So, they’re done fighting for tonight._ “Jeremiah’s birthday is coming up soon, is it not? Maybe we should buy him a that Apocalypse of the Whatnot. He’s been talking about it for ages.”

Jeremy swallows thickly. Dad’s brows furrow. Jeremy thinks that they’re both thinking the same thing.

_Jeremy asked for that game months ago, and Dad had bought it for him on Jeremy’s half birthday after lots of pleading from him and Michael._

“...Eden,” Dad says the name cautiously, like if he emphasises the wrong syllable, Mom will crumble. And it’s only _one_ syllable. “I bought that game for Jeremy a long time ago. I—“ He suddenly brings a hand up, running it through his hair, looking flabbergasted.  His ears are going red. That happens to Jeremy when he gets frustrated or mad.

“Do you even know your own son?”

Jeremy can’t see Mom’s face, but he can tell that she’s completely affronted by that suggestion. Jeremy wishes distantly that he’d stayed in bed.

“Of course I—what kind of question even is that, _do I know my own son_. Of course I do!” Mom stands up in her chair, crossing her arms. Jeremy takes a small step back, but not too far so that he can’t see what’s going on.

“What grade is he in?” Dad asks, ears a scarlet shade now. Mom scoffs.

“He’s in ninth grade, _obviously_. Just started high school.” Even though she says it fiercely, Jeremy can hear the tremble of uncertainty in her voice.

Jeremy is in tenth grade.

“I can’t believe this,” Dad brings both hands up, covering his eyes and groaning loudly as he brings them back down, now clenched into fists. “What have you been _doing_? Where have you been? Because _obviously_ you haven’t been around!” Dad is yelling. Dad is yelling very loudly. Jeremy wraps the blanket tighter around himself, resisting the urge to run to his room.

“These are all stupidly pointless questions.” Mom huffs. “I’m going to go to bed and try to forget how idiotic this conversation was,” Mom is picking up her book and her reading glasses, voice aggravated but also a little embarrassed. She turns around, presumably to head upstairs, and Jeremy panics.

Then, as Mom walks away, she mutters, “I know my Jeremiah.”

Dad’s whole face goes red.

“If you knew Jeremy then you’d know that he _hates_ being called Jeremiah! If you knew Jeremy then you’d know that he’s a sophmore! If you knew our son then you’d know that he spends most of his time playing that goddamn video game with his best friend, Michael because he has no one else to hang out with!” Dad takes a step closer with every sentence, voice cracking and face blotchy. Jeremy knows where he gets it now, at least.

   His heart is pounding, the fight-or-flight instinct taking over his body. He doesn’t put up much of a fight against it.

   Jeremy bolts upstairs before either of them take another step around the corner and find him listening in on their argument.

As soon as he closes the door of his room, the yelling downstairs gets louder. Jeremy can’t make out any words and doesn’t try to, instead attempting to mute the voices with the fuzzy blanket.

There’s a crash. Another yell. A slam.

And then silence.

Jeremy let’s the quiet hang livid in the air for about a minute before his stupid curiosity cat comes back out for more. He stands up, tossing his blanket carelessly behind him, and creeps downstairs again.

When he turns the corner, he sees Dad sitting in the chair beside the one Mom had been sitting in. The beer bottle is shattered on the floor, leaving a film of amber liquid on the tile. Dad looks like he’s crying, but he’s hiding his face in his arms in a way that makes him look like he‘s nothing more than wispy hair and bathrobe sleeves.

“Dad?” Jeremy asks, voice quiet and barley above a whisper. Dad jumps up anyways, looking a little frenzied.

“Jeremy!” Dad says, wiping his face hurriedly. He’s wearing a desperately worn  _everything's okay_ smile. Jeremy goes to take a step forward, but Dad waves a panicked hand.

“No! No, no! There’s broken glass. Let me—“

   So Jeremy watches as his dad gets the mop out, soaking up the alcohol and tossing away the glass shards.

Mom is no where to be found, but Jeremy can guess where she is. Or more, where she isn’t. It makes his head a little dizzy.

“And mom?” Jeremy makes himself ask anyways, hoping he’s wrong. Maybe Dad will say that she just went outside to cool off. Maybe Jeremy can bring her a lemonade and tell her a story about his fake friends that she’ll forget about in an hour.

   But Dad just sighs. It’s a defeated sound that has Jeremy’s eyes stinging without warning.

“She’s—she’s gone, private.”

Jeremy doesn’t know what he expects to feel when the words wash over him. Maybe betrayed? But what really happens is an overwhelming blankness. He feels like he’s been dipped into one of those vats of paraffin wax chocolate at Dairy Queen; but the chocolate is ice and  the ice cream slips out of the cone altogether. He feels like the world has dropped out beneath his feet; but at the same time feels himself being grounded for the first time in years.

Jeremy doesn’t voice any of this. He just opens his mouth to respond and doesn’t try again when nothing comes out. He just turns around and heads back upstairs, slipping on his shoes and grabbing his phone from his nightstand.

When he slips back downstairs and out the door, Dad doesn’t notice. Or else he pretends not to in favour of mopping an already clean floor.

The night is cold and compliments how Jeremy feels on the inside perfectly. He doesn’t regret not grabbing a sweater, even when he discovers that it’s windy tonight. The bite of the cold makes his numb arms buzz, which is better than feeling like overweighted cardboard.

He walks to Michael’s house not because he wants to, but because when he notices a familiar red mailbox, he realises he’s walked there subconsciously. His throat burns almost as much as his eyes do, but he ignores it.

Jeremy slides into his phone and sends Michael a single text. He decides that if Michael isn’t at the door in forty three seconds, Jeremy’s just going to keep walking. Who knows where.

Jeremy waits on the doorstep as the seconds pass. He counts backwards, like the final countdown. It doesn’t feel as rad as they make it out to be in the song.

Forty three.

Forty two.

Forty one.

Forty.

Thirty nine.

Thirty eight.

It’s _so_  cold.

Thirty seven.

Jeremy’s arms aren’t buzzing anymore.

Thirty six.

Just like Jeremy’s mom isn’t around anymore.

Thirty five.

God, are those tears?

The door opens before Jeremy can reach thirty four.

Michael, surprisingly, doesn’t look like he was awoken in the middle of the night. He looks...exactly how he always does. Like a best friend that Jeremy shouldn’t be burdening but does anyways because he’s selfish and greedy.

When Michael rushes to wipe Jeremy’s face, he realises that there had, indeed, been tears on his face. He pushes Michael’s hands away to wipe at them himself, but more just spill over his cheeks anyways. He hates them.

“Jer?” Michael finally breathes out a word. It sounds so fucking loud, even though it’s barely a whisper. “Why are you crying, buddy?”

For some reason, Michael’s concern make his lungs collapse on themselves, and suddenly Jeremy is shaking and heaving and sobbing and gripping at Michael, telling him what happened in gargled words.

Michael seems surprised, but he begins to rub Jeremy’s back. “Jesus, you’re fucking freezing.” He rubs a little more desperately, like Jeremy will fall over and die if he doesn’t get warm. He kind of wishes he would.

He’s being pulled into Michael’s dimly lit house before he can protest or even say anything even slightly coherent. Michael leads him into the kitchen, arm still around Jeremy’s shoulders. He flicks on some lights that make them both flinch at the brightness.

Jeremy’s still crying and it feels pathetic but Michael is still murmuring sweet words like he deserves them. He does not think he does.

“I’m going to make you hot chocolate.” Michael says, arm loosening around Jeremy. Jeremy doesn’t know why he has a primal urge to snatch up Michael’s arm and hold onto it tightly and never let go, but he manages to subdue it. He settles for focusing on the way his tears drip down his face, off his chin, and into his lap. He focuses on the feeling of his numbly cold limbs warming up. He focuses on the sound of Michael clambering around—not worrying about sound because his moms are on a business trip—gathering two mugs and two Nestle hot chocolate packets.

He’s still crying when Michael puts a mug into the microwave to heat up, and he still feels pathetic.

“You are not pathetic, my friend. You are hurting. And hurting is okay. You’re allowed to do it every once and a while.” Michael walks back over and rubs Jeremy’s shoulder as he realises he probably said that out loud without realising it. Great.

“I am though. It’s not like—it’s not like we even had a good relationship! Mom wasn’t even around! And I still—“ Jeremy chokes on a sob, wiping his face a little angrily before finishing. “And I still really wish she hadn’t left.”

Michael’s eyes have gone both soft and steely all at once. He looks like he’s hiding anger. But he doesn’t say anything about being angry.

   “Of course you do, Jerbear. People leaving always hurts. I was too young to remember when my dad left, but Mom was sad for a long time.” He’s rubbing Jeremy’s shoulder a little aggressively now, so he takes Michael’s hand and squeezes it in his own. Michael squeezes back.

Jeremy manages to calm down and stop crying like a baby as Michael retrieves their hot chocolate and sets the cups on the table. Both mugs are steaming.

Jeremy reaches forward and wraps both hands around the glass, not pulling away when his hands get unreasonably hot.

“Jeremy, last I checked, you don’t have heat resistance. Maybe you should lay off the hand grabby thing.” He reaches forward and tugs Jeremy’s hands away from the mug. Jeremy looks up at Michael, cheeks sticky with dried tears and lips pressed in a straight line.

What comes out of his mouth isn’t what he’s expecting.

“Say something funny.” Jeremy says, taking his mug and taking a long sip, ignoring the scorching heat. Michael raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised, but he doesn’t hold back.

“Funny how?” It doesn’t make Jeremy smile, but it does light a little bit of warmth inside his chest.

“I hate Avatar.” Jeremy mutters. Michael’s smiling now, looking like there’s light in the world again. For a second, Jeremy had been scared he’d somehow snuffed out Michael’s flame of happiness. It’s back now, and it ignites Jeremy’s, even if it’s small right now.

“You don’t hate Avatar. You just hate me and my constant references.” Michael grins that shit-eating grin, and Jeremy forces himself to smile a little bit.

He ignores the two tears that drip down in response, like they don’t _want_ him to be happy.

Michael keeps saying funny things, and Jeremy keeps drinking his hot chocolate.

Things hurt. But maybe they’ll hurt less in a while. Maybe they won’t feel like Jeremy needs to freeze over to stop them.

Maybe he’ll be fine knowing that Michael will always re-light the flame again.

“Thanks.” Jeremy says when their cups are empty and they’re hearts are full. (At least a little.)

Michael smiles. It’s soft and warm and inviting. “Always,” He says. It’s the most cliche thing ever but it makes Jeremy want to cry again. He doesn’t, though.

“Stop quoting Harry Potter.”

“Never.”


End file.
